by Daniel Kemp
At 10.43 pm precisely Daniel Cardiff led the way to the lifts in Claridge's foyer and then room 691 on the sixth floor. He had Margret on his arm with Maria and Lord Beaufort following. A minute later Marco delivered a message on a silver salver to Dicky, who had just lit his cigar and about to savour his second brandy.
“Anything important, dear?” Sheila asked.
“Nothing at all, darling. Thank you for a wonderful night and here's to another thirty-two-years.” He raised his balloon glass in salutation.
“My absolute pleasure, Richard. For all your faults I wouldn't change a thing about you,” she replied sincerely.
“Why don't you have another port, my dear. Unfortunately I must call General John over a matter both he and I are dealing with. I won't be more than five minutes, but perhaps I could book an overnight room for us so the evening doesn't have to end so soon, Sheila?”
“Are you stark raving mad, Richard? Think what another port would do for my diabetes let alone the cost of an overnight room here to our bank balance!” she declared emphatically, adding without an intake of breath. “Do stop calling that man General. I dislike it intensely.”
* * *
“John, Dicky Blythe-Smith here, sorry to trouble you at such an hour. I have a delicate situation that I'm dealing with, but have to clear with you first.”
“If you're already dealing with it then my approval would seem somewhat redundant. You have my attention, Dicky, fire away,” General John unemotionally replied.
* * *
Some forty minutes later, Peter Widmark passed a folded piece of paper from the in-car fax machine to Dicky, who was sitting comfortably on the rear seat next to his wife on the journey home. It read: Operation Echo is successful.
The negatives show our people, but in the printed exposures we will obscure their faces. We have subject A sexually engaged with our man and woman, and A's wife engaged likewise. For good measure we have subject A in acts of pleasuring himself several times whilst engaged in an act of fellatio. All copies (including negatives) will be locked in my safe overnight. The cameras have a further hour of filming capacity.
To give praise where it is due, Sir Richard's first thoughts were not centred on how smoothly the sting operation had unfolded, nor on how he would proceed tomorrow with the accumulated photographic evidence. His initial concern was for Daniel Cardiff and how the experience of being sodomised would now affect him. He made an unintentional exclamation of hmm, which Sheila could not avoid hearing.
“Everything still alright, Richard?” she enquired.
“I'm afraid it's not, my dear. I have some business to attend to that won't keep until morning. We'll drop you off at home then I need George and Peter to drive me on somewhere. I'm sorry about this. If you had allowed me to book that room at Claridge's then perhaps this wouldn't have happened.”
“There's no point in lying to me, Dicky. You would have gone even if we were on the moon,” his knowing wife replied.
Dicky sat there staring blankly out of the window, trying to forget the revulsion he felt for himself.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Past
Barrington Trenchard's doorbell rang a few minutes past midnight. He was just about to finish up in his study and head off to bed.
“Well, what have you got?” Dicky asked without preamble, or any of the normal niceties as the door was opened. He was not in a polite mood, nevertheless, this tiny detail escaped Barrington.
“One would have thought that us sexagenarians would need more sleep than we actually get, Dicky. I'm relieved to know I'm not the only one over sixty still awake. Good of you to enquire about my wellbeing, by the way.”
“I don't give a rat's arse about how you are feeling. Did you send a report over to me or not?” Without an invitation both he and Peter entered.
“Do come in,” Barrington said caustically as he stepped aside. “I gave it to that babysitter of yours about three hours ago, before leaving my office. For the past hour I've been dragging people from their beds to fill in most of the missing pieces. That one will be on your desk first thing in the morning,” Trenchard replied emphatically, attempting to re-establish his competence and credentials. “To what pleasure do I owe this visit, Dicky? All rather unusual, is it not?”
“Tell me now what's in it. This cannot wait until the morning. Start with your man Miller.”
“Dicky, I've been working on this since we met for lunch. I'm tired. It wasn't easy, you know.”
“You're a fat fool, Barrington, but that can soon be put to rights by a prolonged spell in one of my secure units in some far flung corner of the universe. It will probably do your weight good. Did Jack know Miller? Yes, or no?”
There was no immediate reply from his adversary. He silently counted to three then said,
“Just concentrate your mind. If I have to waste my time reading that report of yours then you can wait several days without sustenance tucked away somewhere nobody will know about, or, you can tell me now and save the starvation. I'm not a patient man and in no mood to listen to your complaints, Barrington.”
Dicky's method of interrogation was based around his skill at cards. He drew information from his subject either through subtlety, or dominating his prey. With Barrington, Dicky already held all the tricks.
“If you had told me that was your preference then I would have phoned it through to you, saved you a journey.”
“Pointless. I was out. Get on with it. And by the way, you will include if you and Alhambra are currently sleeping partners, won't you.”
Had Sir Richard been a romantic, or in the slightest way idealistic, then now would be the time that he would have expected Barrington to rush off, find a gun and blow his own head off, but there was nothing quixotic about Sir Richard Blythe-Smith nor honourable about Barrington Trenchard. The animosity between the two men went back to the time when Hitler's National Socialist Workers' party was becoming entrenched in Germany and the threat of war loomed over Europe.
Trenchard was an established name within the British elite, with Barrington's father being the Liberal Member Of Parliament for Beaconsfield and one of his uncles being Master of the Royal Hunt, living on the Royal Estate at Balmoral, in Scotland. Both he and Sir Richard served in military intelligence during the years preceding the war when that service was in its infancy, split into many separate smaller sections. It was during this time that the then plain Richard Blythe-Smith was employed on Twenty Committee; a collection of twenty military-minded individuals attempting to turn German spies against their own country and work for the British Empire.
The first one Dicky found was a Hermann Görtz, who had arrived in England in 1935 and was actively collecting information on the Royal Air Force base at Manson in Kent. He was unwittingly helped by a Royal Airforce pilot whom he told Germany and England would be on the same side if war was ever to break out. Görtz's landlady became suspicious of him when she found some detailed drawings of the airfield whilst Görtz had returned to Germany for a holiday. It was Dicky who was given the job of recruiting him and, so he always maintained, he would have done it had it not been for Barrington Trenchard, who then worked in the internal security section of Britain's wartime intelligence services. Trenchard was in charge of a contingent of police officers who arrested Görtz when he returned to England. He was sentenced to a short term of imprisonment, unbeknown to Dicky, before being deported back to Germany. That was the first time their paths crossed, leaving just the smell of annoyance in Dicky's nostrils. If it had never happened again then in all probability it would have been forgotten, but it did happen again; twice. It could of course have been a matter of simple coincidence, as there was little coordination between the various widespread ad hoc units of intelligence gatherers, but the name Trenchard had been planted in Dicky's mind.
In those days of war Dicky was a bit of a loner, working on instinct as well as analysis as all good intelligence officers must do; however, on many occasions h
e went far out on a limb for what he believed. One such instance was more than serendipitous in Sir Richard's mind. Without orders, and acting alone, he had attempted to recruit the daughter of the Spanish Ambassador to the Court of St. James's using all his young masculine charms and revelling in the challenge, when suddenly she was sent back to Madrid. He made extensive enquiries as to why that had been necessary, but found neither a reason, nor anyone responsible. Some months after her disappearance her father attended the funeral of Leopold von Hoesch, Germany's ambassador in London, and in the photographs of the cortège that appeared in the national press her father was speaking to Trenchard's Scottish based uncle.
“It's always been a regret of mine that we never got on better, Dicky. I could never understand that.” All three men were in Trenchard's study.
“Would either of you like something to drink?” Both his visitors refused the offer so Barrington sat, anxiously eking out moments to think.
“I hope it was not my fault. It's a no to your question about Miller. As far as I can ascertain, Price only knew him as a casual acquaintance. Jack had a rented garret in Soho and according to West the two were on speaking terms. As of yet I've have found nothing else,” Trenchard replied, hoping that Dicky's unanswered question about his sleeping partners would miraculously disappear up the chimney through the unused fireplace in front of which he sat.
“It would seem that Price has set you up, old boy. Bit of revenge for some ancient wrongdoing do you think?”
“Not sure what you're implying there, Dicky. I'm not following you.”
“If that's the case then I'd catch up as soon as I could, old thing. I would wait, but I'm miles in front and you're just about to fall at the first hurdle. You see, my lot had a little rummage through your office drawers tonight, looking particularly for mentions of Alhambra, who we both know does not run a jazz club, nor is the porno king of London. Surprise, surprise! Your written conclusions, based on your detective constable's report, have nothing about our Indian born friend, but the one he left at the Home Office does.” He paused briefly, relishing the irony of it being a Spanish pseudonym that delivered the coup de grâce on Trenchard's fate.
“I'll ask again, in case you've forgotten that question of mine; are you and Gregory Stiles still sleeping chums, Barrington? Only it would seem that young West was more suspicious than you gave him credit for, and I'm betting that Price had money on him being entirely that. Perhaps we're missing something, like a different report you sent to the Home Secretary that's gone astray in the internal post?”
The panic was audible in Barrington's voice and that was not just because Perter was now within inches of him and Dicky was leaning on his desk in a threatening pose.
“I want my family kept out of this, Dicky. I don't care about myself. Do what you want with me, but they deserve more than being ridiculed because of what I've done.”
“We will assess the situation as it develops, old fruit, but for now I have a few more pressing questions for you. Has Stiles re-emerged and is he in this country?”
“I'm not sure that re-emerged is the right word to use as he's never been far from the scene. He mixes amongst a different class of people to us and certainly he is not so involved in society as he was, but he still has many friends that are.”
“Where's he been then for all these years?”
“He's been wherever the Windsors have been. For the last few years they and Gregory have lived in France, at a place you may have heard of; Gif-sur-Yvette. As far as I know the house closed after the Duke's funeral. Wallis moved out and into the centre of Paris, whilst Gregory went to stay with the Moselys in Orsay. In his last letter he said he had been working with Wallis's solicitor and needed to travel, but never told me where he was going. If you're after Gregory then I must warn you that he has a younger lover these days who I know to my cost will do anything to protect him.”
Dicky ignored Trenchard's introduction of Stiles's lover, preferring to stick to the theme.
“Would the French atomic research laboratory at Gif-sur-Yvette be of interest to Stiles?”
“Not that I know of, but that's not to say that someone who he knows wouldn't have.”
“Intriguing! We must discuss that very soon. For now I have a final question. Why was it necessary to give an anti-Communist, but not an outstanding neo-Nazi, the code name of a Spanish Palace, or any code name at all come to that?”
After attentively listening to Barrington's lengthy reply, Dicky fell silent for a moment, rubbed his eyes in tiredness and reached for the telephone. With his back to Trenchard he spoke quietly, asking for a car and escort to be sent from his transport pool.
“What's done can't be undone. It's not your headache now, it's mine. Think of the coming few days as a holiday, albeit it won't be anywhere warm and tropical. The days will pass more comfortably that way. Leave a note for that wife of yours saying you've been called away on important business. I'm sure you'll think of a convincing story. You might want add that her brother and his wife Margret were in town tonight. Perhaps they could find her some young amusing things to keep her occupied in your absence. There are a couple of my people coming shortly, my man Peter will wait until they arrive.”
Why have you done this, Jack, and why now? was the question pounding at Dicky's tired brain as George drove him home.
* * *
The disadvantage that Jack saw of his upbringing being spent in Bermondsey, South London, instead of Guildford in leafy Surrey, should not have limited every aspect of his life, particularly when it came to spotting a wrong 'un, as his mother would call those men who preferred the company of other men to that of a woman. In fact, it should have given him a distinct edge, as the ships that used the Port Of London, close to where Jack grew up, carried more than just womanising sailors amongst their crews, but it didn't. Up until his time at the Savoy he had never noticed anyone who looked wrong, or spoke wrong, or acted strangely as he suspected a wrong 'un would do. Leading him to often question his mother's wisdom as to their very existence.
“What should I look out for, Mum?” he asked her more than once.
“You'll know one if you ever meet one,” she replied anxiously.
Tooley Street, Shad Thames and Jacob's Island hid no monsters that Jack stumbled upon in his newspaper delivering job early mornings, nor during the daylight hours to and from home and his school at Dockhead, neither did they appear in the shadows of dusk when running errands for his mother.
When he started work, in the more fashionable Strand area of London, that awareness changed one morning when Mr Snow handed him his daily three pairs of gloves and then, after dismissing the other pages, took him to one side.
“I noticed, Master Price, that you have been in conversation with a regular visitor of ours on several occasions recently; a Mr Campbell.”
“I have, Mister Snow. Have I done something wrong?” the young Jack asked.
“Not wrong in any sense that you would know, but I must caution you in regards to that gentleman. He is not what he may appear to be. If he reserves a room in the hotel and asks specifically for you to deliver something then do not enter his room under any circumstance. If he enquires why that is, then tell him those are my instructions. Got it?”
“I have, Mister Snow, but why?” Jack asked, without hesitation or embarrassment. Although the post room had emptied, Mr Snow still felt the need for discretion.
“He's as bent as a nine bob note, as are most of his friends and if you're unsure what that means, I suggest you ask your dad.” Mr Snow whispered, leaving a lasting jaundiced impression in the young boy's mind.
“My dad's dead, Mister Snow, there's only me and my mum,” Jack replied painfully.
“Even more reason to be careful, Master Price.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tuesday Morning In London - Wednesday In New York
Plain Soldiers
When Sheila awoke in the morning Dicky was not in his bedroom nor anywhe
re else in the house. His car had arrived a few hours previously taking him back to London and number thirty-nine Lavington Street, the address where Barrington had been escorted. On finding some books and papers left untidily lying beside his crumpled, discarded blanket on the floor of his office, she silently mouthed her disapproval of the hours that his department demanded from her husband, then loudly proclaimed, “I wish you would change jobs, you'll live longer if you do.” The housekeeper turned in surprise. “Do you mean me, Madam?” she asked.
* * *
When I left Weilham's office I considered trying to trace my 'kidnapping' van's route on foot, but quickly abandoned the idea as it would have been an impossible task. Instead, with Salvatore's two escorts trailing behind, I walked to Penni's riverside building hoping she was there. It was not my lucky day. Disheartened and feeling rejected, I decide to return to my apartment to collect my things as Jack had instructed.
On existing the lift I made my way along the short, wide carpeted corridor towards my door which although closed had been opened, as told by the fallen matchsticks. If Jack was right to be cautious I could now be the target of a madman wielding a firearm. I turned the key in the lock with my heart in my mouth, but my gun in my hand. Sitting directly opposite the door was a stout man with a flat tartan cap on his head and a gun pointed directly at me.
“How thoughtful of you to return! There I was thinking that I might not get the pleasure of your company. Please drop the weapon, as I'd get my shot well before you could.”
He was roughly forty years of age, deeply tanned with an elongated face and square chiselled chin. The gun, with a silencer attached, held my concentration and as the sun was at his back, shining through the haze of cigarette smoke that swirled around him, it was impossible to notice anything else other than his harsh voice. Job came instantly to mind, as I thought he had a similar Southern African accent.